


Be Mine

by gumpekulla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Female Mycroft, Knotting, Masturbation, Omega Mycroft, Scent Kink, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 01:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9299066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumpekulla/pseuds/gumpekulla
Summary: A series of snippets potraying the relationship between fem!Mycroft and Sherlock in an ABO universe.Diverces from canon around CAM. Warnings inside.-------A Heat doesn’t render an Omega mindless with insatiable lust, no more than a Rut causes Alphas to go on aggressive sex sprees. But Myrtice feels it, all the same.It’s best, however, to avoid being around others in Heats or Ruts for long period of times. The heady mix of pheromones tend to lower inhibitions enough for consent to be an issue, has it not been pre-negotiated.Which is why, at the cusp of her Heat, she is momentarily stunned to enter her London flat and nearly stumble at the heady scent of Alpha Rut which greets her.It’s unforgivable that it takes her several minutes of heavy, hungry breathing before she recognizes who has broken into her home.Sherlock.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, I just wanted Holmescest smut where fem!Mycroft is a squirter. IDK what happened. 
> 
> Some warnings: 
> 
> This is A/B/O, but very mild. No mindless Heats, very little about the sexism usually discussed in those 'verses. 
> 
> CAM is a slimy creep who gets off on people's pain/discomfort. It's heavily implied that he takes physical liberties with Myrtice in exchange for information, and she goes along with it while thinking of England. Very dub-con, but not very explicit.
> 
> Contains underage masturbation and underaged characters exploring their sexuality. 
> 
> Also, incest!
> 
> At one point, Sherlock gets a bit violent with Myrtice. Heavily inspired from the show, when he throws Mycroft up against a wall, so canon-typical level of violence?
> 
> Hmm...might have missed to warn for something. Let me know if I did and I'll add it! :)
> 
> Enjoy!

o0o

The first time it happened, she was mortified. 

She’d bought her first knotting dildo, and brought herself off with her fingers two times before slowly pushing it in. It hurts, being stretched by something other than her own fingers, but she’s determined. She didn’t want to find someone to do it for her, couldn’t trust those who’d want to anyway. She’s sixteen and has been getting herself off just fine since she presented as Omega at thirteen, and she’s under no illusions of what her peers think of her. Hard to be, when she can practically read their minds in every thoughtless word, action and choice they make.

She’s not ugly, but she’s not beautiful either. Spots and freckles, more tummy and thighs than preferred. Useless; it’s all transport anyway, as she keeps telling her hopeless little brother.

But, occasionally, she’ll concede that the matter of transport can matter quite a lot. Not that anyone but herself needs to know, hidden away in her room to glare disdainfully at her reflection. Pinching the fat on her hips, under her chin and on her thighs won’t make it go away.

Not that she needs to worry about that, though. Not when she’s alone. It doesn’t matter if she flushes an unattractive red, or pants more than is seemly while spreading her legs and rubbing her clit until her fingertips wrinkle from her wetness. She can explore herself in peace, push the Alpha rubber cock she acquired inside of her at her own pace. There is no one to consider but herself, and it relaxes her enough to push through the pain.

She doesn’t bleed, because she is patient and unhurried. It hurts, of course, she is so tight and the dildo big (no larger than an average Beta, she had wanted to be realistic, not obscene. That could perhaps come later, if it proved successful). It’s not earth-shattering. She thrusts it carefully in and out, adjusting, and feels her stomach lurch in sudden arousal. It’s the feeling of dropping from a height in a roller coaster, but centered low in her belly, and suddenly it’s much more interesting.

She tries to thrust while her other hand plays with her clit, but it’s awkward and too many sensations to catalogue. Frustrated, she shifts slightly on her back, limber enough to bend her right leg until her heel is almost by her arse. She wriggles until she can position the butt of the dildo against her heel, preventing it from slipping out as her inner muscles clench around it in pleasure. Now she’s free to concentrate on her clit, and it’s amazing. She closes her eyes and remembers the words from one of her naughty books, having a perfect recall of the story which had made her squirm in her seat and soak her pants.

It’s amazing. The hungry feeling she’s used to feeding with her fingers is satisfied; she’s stuffed full and she  _ feels it.  _ Her pussy is clenching around the dildo, quivering as she strokes herself and thinks of being tied up like the Omega in her book. Powerless, but without the humiliation. Sexy and wanton, she even makes noise beyond ragged breathing! She can’t help a whimper, a moan; not with how good this feels. The way she’s pushing herself down on the rubber cock inside of her, even as her heel pushes it up. It’s intense, and she can feel an orgasm building up already, barely a few minutes in. It feels different, but she doesn’t care. She wants to come, and with a startled yelp, she does.

At least, she thinks she does.

Horrified, she feels a spray of liquid soil her and her bed, her belly twitching and her pussy clenching madly. She pulls out the dildo, confused, and scrambles to sit up, hazy with orgasm and mortification.

Has she peed herself?

No, there’s no smell of urine, just the musky scent of her own sex. Heart beating hard in her chest, she inspects her sheets. There’s a wet spot, where she lied. She wracks her brain for answers, can only find references from naughty stories, none of them very scientific. It's madly unsatisfying, but calms her somewhat. She still feels slightly sick with shame, and cleans up as best she can.

Her chores include laundry, so she doesn’t worry about coming up with any excuses. It would have been easy, had it been her Heat. Still, she hides her soiled sheets in the bottom of her hamper, almost angry.

Even in this, her body betrays her. Outside of pornographic fantasies, how would this appeal to any sane person? Messy and embarrassing. None of which, she reminds (comforts) herself, applies to her mind. As with any flaw, she will need to study it until she understands it completely. At least, it will be pleasurable, whenever the study turns physical. She’ll have to invest in towels, however. Perhaps a rubber sheet.

Cheeks burning with frustrated shame, she finishes cleaning up and goes to bed in fresh sheets. Just as well, she thinks, that she’s already decided to forgo a mate.

o0o

On the morning Myrtice turns 18, her brother - Sherlock- _ not-William _ , as he’s been insisting for the last three years - comes barreling through her bedroom door to wake her up. She hits him with a pillow.

“Ow!”, he exclaims in mock outrage, rubbing his nose while grinning from his perch straddling her stomach. He’s already eleven, but all bones and growing limbs, baby fat still on his cheeks. He weighs nothing, yet she still makes a show of grunting as she pushes him off. He falls, shrieking and laughing, off the bed with a  _ thump  _ that has their mother calling their names from downstairs.

“Mummy she  _ pushed  _ me!”, Sherlock hollers, his messy head of curls poking up by the side of her bed.

“Don’t care, Billy!” comes their mummy’s reply, travelling well up the stairs. Sherlock grimaces, even as he climbs up into bed again, this time to push his way into her side. 

“You’re 18!”, he states gleefully, poking her in the ribs until she rolls her eyes and concedes, putting an arm around him and letting him cuddle up.  

“Yes, thank you, I hadn’t noticed the date,” she drawls even as she cards her fingers through his hair. He still feels impossibly small, despite growing like a weed this summer. He’ll present in a few years, she thinks wistfully. Even little brothers must grow up.

“Shut up, you’re legally an  _ adult  _ now!” he crows, more eager than her. “We can do all sorts of stuff! You can rent a flat, we can live in  _ London,  _ Myrtice!”

She snorts. Her little brother had always been a dreamer. “Nevermind I’m still at Oxford, of course.”

“Dull,” Sherlock proclaims with all the gravitas of his years.

“Perhaps,” she concedes, because it  _ is  _ dull, sometimes, when the professors fail to challenge her. She wonders, sometimes, why she bothered to convince mummy to let her graduate ahead and apply for early admission. Other times, she thrills at the information and knowledge she acquires. The world is so  _ large,  _ then. “But, sadly, it is very necessary.”

Sherlock merely grumbles, fiddling with a lock of hair that’s escaped her plait. They’ve had this discussion before, and through silent agreement, they let the matter lie for today.

“Are you excited, then, for going to France with me?” she asks a few moments later, because that’s what it all comes down to. His excitement, and mummy’s fretting.

“I want to leave  _ now,”  _ is his reply, eager and spoilt. She laughs, and tickles him. It’s her birthday, she won’t tolerate any whinging.

He’s slippery as an eel, though. Red-faced with laughter, he escapes, to the tune of their mother threatening to come up and twist their ears. Myrtice throws a pillow after him, as he slips out her door. Menace.

o0o

The first time it happened, he was confused but excited.

They’re a family of Betas, mostly, with Alphas and Omegas sprinkled very sparsely through their history. It was, perhaps, not that surprising to have his big sister present as Omega, however. Mostly because everyone had already expected her of being something extraordinary. It was a silent expectation, really, to have her grow into an Alpha or Omega. That her biology settled for the latter had, to his six-year old self, not mattered. Her declaring mating bonds as useless and undesirable had only assured him then. No mate to take his sister away, she could be all his. An innocent enough notion, back then. Not so much when he nicked one of her naughty books from her bookshelf at twelve and found himself imagining her in the fictional Omega’s place. And him in the Alpha’s.

It was stupid, of course. Nothing could come out of it, and his penis remained stubbornly Beta as he turned thirteen, fourteen then fifteen. No less hard and demanding, of course, but there were no signs of a knot. Mummy had wondered if he would present as an Omega, too, and the thought hadn’t necessarily put him off. His sister was fascinatingly undiscriminating regarding gender and orientation; he suspected an affair with a male Omega professor and an Alpha female government employee at one point. Simultaneously. But no, no slick in his arse, or sudden cravings to be filled (though he had explored his prostate, and enjoyed it quite a lot).

Resigned to be a Beta, the most common and to him therefor the most  _ boring  _ gender, he couldn’t be blamed for his startled reaction. 

What had started out as an illicit - but quite standard, really - wank rapidly turned into quite the revelation.

Myrtice is back for Christmas, downstairs now helping their father decorate the tree while mummy cooks dinner. Sherlock had excused himself, driven to distraction by her scent. She’s in Heat, and despite her suppressors, even his Beta nose can pick up on the rise in hormones and pheromones. He has always been able to smell her, and in recent years, it never fails to make him hard as a rock. Today is not an exception.

He grips the stolen knickers tight in his fist, burying his nose in it. He took them from her hamper, confident that she must have soiled at least one pair with her arousal since arriving. It’s mouthwatering, and utterly filthy. He groans, fumbling his fly open, and pulls out his dick. It’s leaking enough precum to slick the way, and he wastes no time. She’s caught him once before, and has had her suspicions for longer. Frustratingly, she’s ignored it. Still, her stern reprimand had brought to life the small bit of shame he had left. He is going to have to be quick.

He takes one last sniff, before he brings the soft cotton pants down and smears the tip of his cock against the dried spot on the fabric. Groaning, he imagines their fluids mixing. Their scents.

He would take her from behind, her round arse high in the air and flushed face pressed into his mattress. He fucked Victor like that, just last month. A ginger Omega, three years his senior. He has more freckles than Myrtice, but is roughly the same height. A bit too skinny, not enough hips to grab at, and no heavy breasts to grasp as he bounced on Sherlock’s cock. From behind, though, it had been easier to imagine. Myrtice keeps her hair short, nowadays. Does yoga and pilates in an attempt to stay fit. All it does is fuel his imagination, however. He thrusts into his hand, enveloping the head of his prick with her knickers, and imagines the many ways he could force her to bend. Truss her up with his school ties, gag her with her own pants. He shudders, feeling his orgasm approach. His balls draw up, tight, and his cock throbs. He feels hot, a strange sensation in his stomach. He pulls harder at his prick, suddenly desperate. Removing her knickers, he brings them up to his nose again, smelling his precum mixed with her sex. Fuck, he’s gonna come.

Without thought, he stuffs his mouth with her pants, stifling his noises. Now free, his left hand shoots down to join his right where it’s frantically wanking him off. He’s hardly aware of gripping the base of his cock, squeezing and releasing over and over. When it registers suddenly, the sensation of something swelling, it’s too late. He’s coming with a muffled shout, semen shooting up his stomach, hitting his chin with its force.

It should be over, but it isn’t.

He comes in pulses, an orgasm suddenly stretched out into what feels like infinity. He’s felt nothing like it.

Objectively, he knows what’s happening. He’s gripping a knot at the base of his penis, coming as if he’s locked inside a partner. He’s an Alpha.

Subjectively, he’s quite busy coming his brains out with the taste of himself, cotton and Omega slick on his tongue. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’s cross-eyed.

It takes a while to recover. By the time his brain comes online again, he’s a mess of semen and sweat and drool. He wipes himself as clean as he can with his sister’s pants, excitement not unlike arousal low in his belly at the thought of putting them back where he found them. Her whole room will smell like Alpha sex.

Alpha, he thinks. A surprise, certainly, but far from unwelcome. Grinning, he imagines the look on Myrtice’s face. He’ll turn sixteen in a month. She won’t be able to ignore him much longer.

o0o

Myrtice ignores him for four years. Moves to London, in fact. Gets recruited into Her Majesty’s service so she’s rarely home, not even in England all that often, to be honest. She’s not running away, she’s merely saving their mother’s heart and removing Sherlock’s object of obsession out of his reach. Surely, that is the healthy and right thing to do. He clearly desires a bond, young and virile Alpha that he turned out to be. He must have fixated on her, somehow, after she presented. Perhaps she had been too familiar in their relationship.

No matter.

She learns how to kill in several different ways, with whatever she may have at her disposal. It’s mostly the mess and legwork which displeases her. She has a much better affinity for intelligence gathering. Seeing patterns, predicting outcomes, forgetting nothing and seeing all. Taking one look and knowing exactly how to break them, make them talk. Sometimes they don’t need to, she reads it off of them like they’d handed her a written report.

She doesn’t come home for Christmas anymore.

o0o

The first time he shoots up, is after knotting Victor up for the last time. He can’t stand his freckles anymore, or his stupid ginger hair. His submission tastes sour, and it’s made worse by the fact that Sherlock knows exactly why.

He isn’t Myrtice, and after three years, Sherlock finally accepts it for what it is: a poor substitute.

Victor cries, and begs. Lashes out finally and calls him a freak. Somehow he knows.

“You just want to fuck your sister, don’t you?  _ Knot her.  _ I didn’t want to believe it, but it’s true, isn’t it? God, what kind of freak  _ are  _ you? No wonder she left!”

The cocaine isn’t because of Victor, or even Myrtice. He reads about its effects and he  _ wants it.  _ So he takes it,  _ because he fucking can. _

o0o

A Heat doesn’t render an Omega mindless with insatiable lust, no more than a Rut causes Alphas to go on aggressive sex sprees. But Myrtice feels it, all the same. A strong need, a wetness between her legs, an emptiness that wants to be filled. It’s nothing she can’t take care of herself, and she can function just fine through its week-long period. Mates usually take a Heat leave, but she has no need for it. It’s in her scent, and makes her more attractive to certain people who are receptive to her unique blend of aromas, but it’s only mildly noticeable. It’s best, however, to avoid being around others in Heats or Ruts for long period of times. The heady mix of pheromones tend to lower inhibitions enough for consent to be an issue, has it not been pre-negotiated.

Which is why, at the cusp of her Heat, she is momentarily stunned to enter her London flat and nearly stumble at the heady scent of Alpha Rut which greets her. It’s been there long enough to mix with her own scent, which should be intrusive and appalling. Instead, it makes her wet and excited, which is dangerous.

It’s unforgivable that it takes her several minutes of heavy, hungry breathing before she recognizes who has broken into her home.

_ Sherlock. _

It’s been four years since she first smelled his Alpha scent, strong in her childhood bedroom and utterly soaking in a pair her crusty, semed drenched knickers. She feels as wrong-footed and aroused as she had then, but her anger flares less hot now and more an unforgiving, icy cold.

She finds him in her bed, of course. Just turned twenty and a greasy, dirty mess of skin and bones. He’s off his mind high, skin a sickly shade and eyes clouded with drugs.

The moment she steps through the door, he’s up. She could dodge him, but she lets him lunge at her. Capture her.

She’s too appalled to do anything else.

“Are you going to run away again?” he snarls, aggressive and wild. She could snap his neck, or break his wrists. The stench of his filth isn’t enough to drown out the musky scent of his Rut. Her little brother has always smelled warm and good to her, she misses the days when she could bury her nose in the nape of his neck and breathe him in. Now, however, ever since his presentation he’s smelled unnaturally appealing. Unnatural because they are siblings: blood related and raised together.

“I was never running,” she answers him, voice tight with anger. “I sought to put an end to your unhealthy obsession. I see you have found another. A junkie, brother dear? How  _ charming.” _

She’s known about the drugs, but not their extent. They haven’t been this physically close in years. He shakes her by her shoulders, snarling.

“ _ Don’t  _ appal me when I’m high!” he snaps, infuriated by her denial, her disgust.

“Or else?” she snorts, completely taken by surprise when he flings her into the wall. She gasps at the pain, her training and experience good enough to minimise it as she instinctively knows how to twist her body. She had not counted for him to be this explosive. Foolish. The drug, the Rut and her fresh Heat scent. One of them has to leave.

“Get out,” she orders him, quiet but with enough menace to make him pause. He blinks, nostrils flaring. For a moment, his drug-hazed eyes seem to clear. He meets her glare, confused for a moment, before he shudders.

“Myrtice-", he begins, voice shaking, but she cuts him off. Points towards the door.

“ _ Out",  _ she snarls. She needs to clear her head, guilt and worry and pain is eating her up. She can’t stand to look at him, turning her gaze away as he flees.

Her door slams shut, the sound echoing in her empty flat.

A Heat or Rut doesn’t make one mindless, merely lower inhibitions.

“And what does that say about me?” she asks the room, shaking with want, the scent of her brother’s drug-fuelled Rut clinging in her nose. He got what he wanted.

She can’t ignore him anymore.

o0o

In exchange for kisses, he writes her lists, so she’ll always know what he’s taken when she inevitably finds him. He enjoys making her chase him, seeing the worry in her eyes. Drugs make him cruel, unfeeling. It’s a rush when he’s high, but desperation when he’s coming down. If he were a better man, he would stop.

If he were a better man, he wouldn’t blackmail his sister into kissing him. Sometimes, he contemplates doing more. She’d let him, because she isn’t good either, no matter what she says on her high horse.

He finally has her attention.

o0o

“What will it take for you to stop?” she wonders, sitting on the floor of his dingy flat, his head in her lap. “Before you kill yourself.”

He stares up at her, placid for once. His mood swings are terrible and violent, when he’s not listless with ennui. He answers simply, carelessly, as he always does. “You know.”

Her response is the same as ever. “That can’t happen.”

According to their script, he turns his gaze away, bitter. Helpless to his own desires, and resenting it. Resenting her.

She’s just had a promotion, a few months after turning thirty. She met Mister Magnussen for the first time, staring the devil in his eyes as she shook his hand. He’d smiled, licked his lips. Kissed her knuckles and licked the skin. Sweet Omega, he’d called her. Rolled her flavour on his tongue, breathed in her scent.

Kissing her brother in exchange for his temporary compliance had seemed perfectly natural, today.

“It couldn’t happen, with you like this,” she whispers, guilty. His eyes snaps to her face, gaze hard.

They don’t speak, but he demands another payment before he eats the food she brought. She kisses him, slow and drawn out. Teases him breathless and leaves, rolling his flavour on her tongue.

o0o

He gets clean, not because of Myrtice, or even mummy. He wants to, because he realizes he doesn’t want to die.

The kisses stop, there are no more lists to write and he feeds himself when he damn well feels like it. He’s an adult, he lives in London. He can do what he wants.

What he wants is to solve puzzles. He makes up his own job. It’s fine, it’s all fine.

She avoids him when he’s in Rut, but he seeks her out when she’s in Heat. He’d still take her from behind, if he could. Fuck her into his mattress, bite her neck and welcome her teeth in his own, bonding them. He suspects he’ll never stop wanting it, and he knows now there are no substitutes. Not Victor, not drugs. There’s only The Work.

His body is just transport, bonds are useless. 

Repeating it enough makes it easier to believe.

o0o

“Mr Magnussen,” she greets the man, standing in his office, summoned. He tsk’s, smiling sharply.

“Dear Myrtice, there is, as ever, no need for these formalities of yours. No matter how much you love them,” he warns her, voice smooth. He never lets her keep any distance, and no matter how unnecessary a evil he is, she will never forgive it.

“Charles,” she corrects herself, careful to keep her disgust hidden away. He can’t read it on her, but he’s smart. His mind as sharp as hers, a terrifying reality. He doesn’t need to see any evidence to  _ know  _ she hates him.

It arouses him, his Alpha scent a sick, cloying stench letting her know just how much.

“Come here, then, and we’ll see what we can do about those pesky terrorists of yours,” he smirks, gesturing for her to sit. As she does, the air is displaced, and he leans in to catch her scent. Her Heat has only just begun, and he knew it long before she stepped foot inside his den.

This payment, in exchange for a list of names rather than drugs, she minds a lot more.

o0o

John. Crazy, bit-not-good Beta John Watson. He’s a blessing, as much as a curse. With him starts a chapter of Sherlock’s life that proves more dangerous than the drugs.

o0o

She’s tired. Sherlock is back on drugs, sniffing at Magnussen’s heels. Disaster looms, Myrtice knows it. Can see it unfold in her mind.

Really, there are only so many times she can close her eyes and think of England. She’s killed, betrayed and lied for her country. She understands the sacrifices one makes for the greater good. A man like Magnussen is alive because of this.

Even dead, his filth will be stuck in her mind, too many years of it piling up. It won’t matter. Her brother is reckless, his enemies worse than cockroaches.

“I’d let you, now,” she tells him over the phone, boarding a plane. This time, she’s brave enough to admit she’s running. “But I don’t think you want me, anymore. Goodbye, brother mine.”

She won’t be back for a while.

o0o

He could kill her, himself. They won’t let him see her. She left no evidence, but that they suspect is enough.

She’s too valuable to dispose of, but suddenly too dangerous to trust. He should be grateful. A despicable man is dead, and not by Sherlock’s hand, saving him from something worse than prison no doubt.

He’s furious.

“She’ll get out of this on top,” Mary tells him. “She has a reputation of doing that.”

“I’ll get to her,” he says, promises. “Somehow.”

Moriarty’s return gives him opportunity, and he doesn’t waste it.

o0o

_ Find him.  _ That’s their stipulation. She reads between the lines, however.  _ End him. _

o0o

“I won’t stop wanting you. I’ve tried, it doesn’t work,” he tells her, honestly. He feels vulnerable. “Will I ever get to have you?”

It’s the age old question.

o0o

The first time it happened, she was exhausted.

He bursts into the room they have her in, wakes her with a start. She throws a pillow at him.

“Ow!”, he yelps, more in surprise than any real hurt. He wrinkles his nose, glaring at her, though his lips twitch. He wants to smile, but he won’t.

“You’re alive,” he states, sitting down on the bed next to her, and poking her on the small patch of ribs that aren’t bruised, somehow finding it through her clothes.

“Yes, thank you, I hadn’t noticed,” she drawls, brow raised. He rolls his eyes.

“Shut up,” he says before carefully laying down. The bed is just barely big enough to fit them, as she concedes to shuffle over carefully to give him space. Her body aches, but she allows him to pull her close, arms around her keeping her in place. Holding her together.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks after a while, nose buried in her hair. She trails a finger along his collarbone, wondering.

“What would you suggest?”

He huffs, impatient. “You know what.”

She smiles. Ever the dreamer, her Sherlock. Philosopher and scientist.

“Fine, then.” She almost didn’t make it to her next birthday. Still might not. It’s time she made a wish, and had it come true.

“You…” he cuts himself off, breathing in sharply, hugging her tight.

“Excited, are we? To have me for yourself,” she asks, nervous for once. This is what it’s all about, after all. The years, the resentment. 

“I want it  _ now,”  _ he whispers, burying his face in her neck. She could cry, if she wasn’t who she is.

The door is open, but it hardly matters anymore. She’s gotten away with worse.

“Please,” she begs. For once. For him, only him. He shudders against her, and lunges. His taste is on her tongue, his scent in her nose. She never stood a chance.

It’s desperate, a consequence of their history. He rucks up her nightgown, tears her knickers off. She’s wet, takes his fingers as he feels how slick she is, how tight. He groans, flips her over onto her stomach. She can’t kneel for him, too sore, but he merely straddles her thighs and pushes into her pussy, hands grasping her arse and parting her cheeks. She closes her legs, makes it hot and snug for him, relishes the stretch of him inside as he forces her body to make room for his cock. He thrusts hard, jostling her and making her bruises and cuts ache. She doesn’t care, too gone.

It’s quick. She comes on his cock, screaming. Gushes her orgasm, drenching them both. Sherlock’s surprised curse is cut off by a moan, her pussy milking him until he comes soon after. He pushes in deep, and she whines his name as she clenches down on his knot, feeling it catch and grow, plugging her up. He comes in spurts, moaning her name, and she shudders through countless little orgasms before it’s over.

He rolls them on their sides, stuck. She can’t run even if she wanted to, not for quite a while. She really doesn’t want to.

o0o

The first time it finally happened, he was relieved.

She comes on his cock, hard, better than any fantasise. It’s wet and messy, her ejaculate soiling them both and mingling perfectly with the scent of himself. The smell of sex hits him like a club, the thought of them both marked enough to make him bite his tongue. The violent undulations of her pussy is the last straw.

He knots her, finally, and feels the worry and longing leave him to be replaced by blissful relief.

“Be mine,” he pleads, nuzzling her neck. Teasing her unmarred marking spot with lips and light scrapes of teeth. One bite, and she’s his. One more, matching, and he’s hers. A bond.

She tilts her head, offers her neck fully. His breath catches. “Yes.”

He sinks his teeth in with a groan, helpless to his desires. Blissful. When she completes it, his blood on her teeth, nothing has felt so good.

He won’t let her go.

  
o0o

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the typos and stuff, typed the whole thing on my phone, opps! Also, English = not my first language.
> 
> Comments are love! :D
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://gumpekulla.tumblr.com)!


End file.
